


Damned If You Do, Damned If You Don't

by Happymystery12



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Demon Deals, Demons, Homophobia, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25599046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happymystery12/pseuds/Happymystery12
Summary: Alfred Jones has been a blacksmith and run a smithing shop for six years, ever since his smithing mentor passed. When a demon burns down a house in his little village, he tracks down and captures the creature, starting himself on a path that only leads to one place: damnation.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia), Canada/Prussia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 37





	1. The Trap

This was the fifth night this week Alfred had set and watched this trap. It was simple, just a rope net and a dropping mechanism, but he was hopeful that it would work. The blacksmith had been trying for six weeks now to trap the demon that had been plaguing his small village, and he had a good feeling that tonight would be the night he caught the creature. He heard a snap, and then a scream, and when Alfred looked up, he saw the net had come down on something, and he got up, grabbed his torch, and ran to see if he’d succeeded.

Green eyes, set in a pale face, looked up at the young blacksmith. The demon’s face, remarkably human-looking and framed by yellow hair, was twisted in an expression of agony. His skin seemed to sizzle and burn wherever the rope touched, a sign that Alfred was right—this man was no man, but the demon he sought.

Hate burned in Alfred’s blue eyes, and he stuck the torch in the ground as he knelt to face the monster. He gathered up the edges of the rope and yanked, pulling the demon off his feet to prevent him from escaping. He tied the net shut with another piece of rope, then turned to face the demon. “Who are you?” He pulled a vial of holy water from his pocket.

The demon felt searing pain all over from the net soaked in holy water, and he gritted his teeth as he looked at Alfred. “You may call me Arthur,” he hissed, looking up at the human’s youthful face.

“Well, Arthur, you’re going to come with me, because I have some questions for you.” Alfred stood and grabbed the closed-up end of the net. He lifted the demon with little effort, with strength afforded to him by his physically taxing profession. He carried the demon off south, towards a relatively large building. On the way, he passed by the local chapel, where he knew the priest lay fast asleep, unaware of what Alfred had just captured.

Arthur just silently nodded, too pained by the holy energy touching his skin to answer. The burns on his arms turned an odd, sick brown color.

The blacksmith walked into the shop and strode easily back into the living quarters behind the shopfront. Holy energy saturated the room, and the wet splatters on the wall showed Arthur why that was. Salt lined the edges of the room, further acting to keep the demon captive. Alfred threw Arthur down onto the floor, still trapped in the sanctified net, then shut and locked the door. He moved to untie the net and let Arthur free, knowing the demon couldn’t escape as he was now. Throwing the rope lattice off the creature, he stepped back, pulling a vial of holy water from inside his cloak. “First,” he began, holding the vial up as a threat, “why are you here? What do you plan on doing?” He had put himself between the demon and the door, just in case.

Arthur scanned the room as he slowly stood, looking for a way out. Finding no means of escape available, he realized he had no choice but to comply with the human’s questioning. His eyes set on the blacksmith, who he vaguely recognized; he’d seen him a few times over the years. “I’m here simply because humans  _ fascinate _ me,” he told Alfred, a tense smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He folded his arms, gritting his teeth at the hot pain that accompanied the movement.

Alfred’s brow furrowed, and he stepped closer to the demon, opening the vial and holding it up. “I think there’s more to it that you’re not telling me. So, what is it? Fleeing damnation? Sent as an omen? Sent to cause trouble?”

“Well, you’re on the right track. Let me see if I can put it in terms that a brute like  _ you _ can understand.” Despite the situation he was in, Arthur couldn’t help mocking his captor. “I am here to cause sin and misfortune. I have numbers I have to make, and if I meet my quotas, I get to stay here.” He took a step back, trying to put some distance between himself and the blessed liquid in Alfred’s hand, but the suffocating energy of the purified walls drove him back towards the center of the room. “If I don’t meet expectations, I have to leave, and another demon takes over this territory—one who may not be as  _ merciful _ as me.” He thought that perhaps this angle might make the blacksmith let him go. “Think of it this way. Any small misfortunes, like tripping more than usual, or feeling angrier than normal, that’s all me. I plant little seeds of doubt and despair that drive people to sin. Doing it in small, unnoticeable ways is the long way to do it, and requires more work, but it’s the way I like to go about it.

“Other demons,” he continued, “might choose shorter, more dramatic methods, like a plague or a war, and if I am removed from here, there are no guarantees of who might replace me.”

Alfred lowered the vial, his eyes slowly widening at the prospect of pestilence or violence falling upon the village. If the demon’s words were true, he was all that stood between the village and potential massacre, and that would mean exorcism would be a catastrophic mistake. He despised the notion of there ever being a lesser of two evils, but what if this was one? What if something were to happen to the village because of his actions?

Alfred decided he couldn’t let that happen. As much as he hated that he had to, he had to let the demon go and let him stay in the village, and the priest couldn’t know there was a demon skulking around. Harboring an agent of the devil could damn him, but it was necessary. “If you’re the only thing standing between the village and destruction,” he said, looking at Arthur, “then fine. I’ll let you go, and you can continue your work.”

A sly smile came to Arthur’s face, and he took a step towards the blacksmith. “I’m glad you see things my way.” He tilted his head. “You figured me out entirely on your own, didn’t you? I like that. What is your name?”

“Alfred.” He’d given his name so easily, but he felt resigned to this. He was protecting this demon, after all.

“Well, Alfred, I like your intellect. And you’re making a smart decision. If you ever want to talk to me, just call my name.” Something about Alfred intrigued the ancient being, something he could sense inside the blacksmith that titillated him:  _ sin _ . Some very deep sin clung to Alfred. Arthur wanted to sniff it out now, but it could wait. “Now, be a dear and open the door for me, would you?”

Alfred opened the door and stepped aside to let Arthur out of the living quarters. He thought he’d regret what he was doing later, but there was no choice.

As Arthur strode out of the living quarters, he turned back to look at Alfred. “Good bye.” With that, he vanished into thin air, leaving Alfred alone to contemplate what he had just signed himself up for.


	2. The Contract

The next morning, a Sunday, Alfred walked out of the chapel after Mass. He had spent some time after the service confessing his sins, the same couple of sins he  _ always _ confessed to. He was a homosexual, something the Church deeply frowned upon and a secret known only to himself and the priest, a Father Matthieu Williams. The Father had been as kind and reassuring as always, giving Alfred his penance and sending him on his way. Alfred wondered if the priest ever got tired of his regular confessions.

He headed down to the river, aiming to just sit and think for a while. His mind wandered back to last night, to his encounter with the demon who called himself Arthur. He wondered if letting the thing go had been the right choice, and whether he should have told Father Williams about the demon. He still had the chance, he knew, but that notion that it could doom the village hung in the back of his mind. He sat down and just stared at his reflection in the rushing water as he mulled this over.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, but eventually, Father Williams, with his kindly, saint-like face, appeared at his side. The priest sat down with him, and in a quiet voice, asked, “Can we talk about what you told me earlier?”

“Of course, Father.” Alfred looked at the holy man.

Unbeknownst to the pair, someone was eavesdropping. Arthur could hardly stand to be near the priest, with the man’s holy aura making him sick to his stomach, but he had watched his captor walk away from the chapel and towards the river and had followed the blacksmith, curious about his sullen face. Now, hearing about an “earlier,” he was intrigued, wondering what the blacksmith had confessed to, and why the priest had come to speak with him about it. He folded his arms as he listened in.

“Alfred, do you think you can change these feelings of yours?” Father Williams asked the blacksmith.

Alfred was quiet for a bit before he answered, really thinking about what he was being asked. “Maybe,” he said finally, shrugging. “I’ve tried. I’m still trying. But I’m doing fine just not acting on it.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow.  _ What feelings? _

Father Williams offered the blacksmith a hopeful smile. “Well, I think you can, if you turn it over to God.”

The priest’s deep faith was always a double-edged sword for Alfred, both a hope-inspiring comfort and a reminder of the things he hid from the holy man that would surely mean excommunication. He turned his attention back to the rushing water, noticing for the first time just how much he looked like Father Williams. People had mistaken them for each other ever since Father Williams had taken over at the chapel five years ago, and now, seeing their reflections side by side, he could see why. “Thanks, Father,” he said simply before he stood. “Well, I should be going. I’m sure you have things to do.” He waved goodbye to the priest, and then walked away, heading back to his shop.

As soon as he shut the door, he saw a familiar face step out of the living quarters.

A smirk came to Arthur’s face as he crossed his arms. “So, what are these sinful feelings of yours?” he asked, making his way across the cluttered shop floor to the blacksmith. An idea formed in his mind. He’d already convinced Alfred to keep his presence a secret; what was one more step down? What else could he convince the human to do?

Alfred tried to keep some distance between himself and the demon, not trusting the agent of the devil for a second. He stayed quiet, not wanting to give Arthur any more power over him than he already had.

"Oh, come now, Alfred, it's not like I'll go to the priest with anything you tell me," Arthur teased with a quiet chuckle. "You two are quite close, aren't you? You must tell him everything."

Alfred still kept his mouth shut, wary of the demon and any tricks he might try to play.

"What would you say if I told you I could give you an outlet for those sinful feelings?" Arthur continued, picking up an ornate dagged from a display and looked it over. "Would you tell me then?"

_ I could give you an outlet. _ Alfred had resisted those immutable, unchangeable temptations for so long, the offer of a way to give into those urges was an offer he almost couldn’t refuse. He still hesitated, distrustful of the demon and his offer of an outlet. “What do you mean by ‘outlet’?”

“A way to fulfill those urges, with no consequences.” Arthur came closer to Alfred, the grin on his face growing wider. “Tell me, Alfred, what keeps you from acting on your desires?”

“The church,” Alfred answered before he could stop himself. “I’d be excommunicated,” he continued, “and that would be a death sentence.”

“Afraid of the church, eh? Well, I can’t blame you there.” Arthur still had that decorative weapon in his hand. “With how cruelly they treat people, sometimes I wonder who is worse: us demons, or the Catholics?”

Alfred’s mind flitted to Father Williams, and he took offense to Arthur’s comparing the Catholic clergy to agents of the Devil.

“I could offer you a way out of that fear,” Arthur spoke up as Alfred stewed in his indignation, flipping the dagger around in his hand and watching his own movements. “For a price, of course. What do you think would be worth that kind of protection, Alfred?”

It dawned on Alfred then that Arthur was trying to persuade him into a contract, likely for his  _ soul _ , if those stories he’d read while researching demonology held any water.  _ When a mortal sells his soul to a demon, _ he remembered one book had spelled out,  _ the human belongs to the demon for eternity. The demon can do anything he pleases, and the human has little room to reject. _ Arthur’s offer of freedom from the threat of the Church became more tempting than it had been earlier-but would it be worth selling his soul? Would it be worth becoming the property of a demon for all eternity, sacrificing any chance at salvation?

_ I’m damned anyway. _

As Arthur waited for an answer, his eyes flicked from the knife to the blacksmith who had crafted it. He raised an eyebrow. “Well?” he prodded.

“There’s only one thing I could offer you that might be enough,” Alfred started, trepidation clear in his voice. He stopped.  _ How would he go about this? _ His mind went back to Father Williams again, and he worried that Arthur might hurt the priest in an attempt to fulfill his end of the bargain he offered Alfred. “What would you do to fulfill your end of a deal like that?” he asked.

“Whatever I had to.” Arthur set down the dagger, forgetting about it immediately to focus on persuading Alfred.

Alfred’s mind stayed on Father Williams. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if the priest got hurt because of his selfishness. He hesitated for a moment. “Am I allowed to ask for stipulations on that?”

“If you can pay the price.” Arthur folded his arms, raising an eyebrow at Alfred. “Why? Anything in mind?”

“If I go through with this,” Alfred started, “no matter what you decide to do, leave the priest out of it, unless he comes after you.”

This would make his job harder, but if he was going to persuade Alfred, he had to concede to this. “Very well,” he huffed. “Now--you mentioned there is one thing that would pay the price of what you want. What would that be?”

Satisfied that Father Williams would be kept safe, Alfred took a breath. There was no going back now. “The one thing I could offer you is my soul and my eternity.”

A grin spread across Arthur’s face. “And are you willing to make a deal?”

“I am.” Alfred nodded. This could be the greatest mistake he ever made, he knew, but he also knew he didn’t have anything to lose anyway.

“These will be the terms of our contract: exchange for you handing over your soul and control of your afterlife to me, I will protect you from the prospect of excommunication. In addition, Father Williams will be unharmed unless he poses a danger to me.” Arthur held out his right hand for Alfred to shake. “Are those terms satisfactory?” He gave Alfred one last chance to back out. This was a choice the man had to make for himself, after all.

The blacksmith’s gaze drifted to Arthur’s outstretched hand, and he took a deep breath before he grabbed it, firmly shaking, agreeing to the terms of the contract. A jolt shot through his arm, leaving a dull ache from his palm to his shoulder as he let go of the demon’s hand.

Arthur grabbed Alfred’s wrist, turning the man’s hand over, and he waved his other hand over Alfred’s palm. A circular matrix of runic symbols, ancient and arcane, revealed itself in a faint violet light. The blacksmith couldn’t help but smile at the sight, knowing he was  _ free _ . But freedom came at a cost, he knew. If there had been a slim chance that the Church’s teachings were wrong, and Alfred was worty of salvation, that chance was lost to him forever. He wouldn’t even be given the option of damnation, instead subjected to the will of a single demon.

“Oh, Alfred,” Arthur said, letting out a devious little laugh, “this is going to be  _ fun _ .”


	3. The Merchant

The next two weeks were quite uneventful for the blacksmith Alfred Jones, despite the new circumstances he found himself in. Life remained mostly unchanged; he still went to church every Sunday, to throw off any suspicion the priest might develop, and Arthur mostly left him alone, regarding him and his work as an amusing curiosity more than anything else.

The demon took quite an interest in watching Alfred create complex designs and sturdy weapons out of nothing but ingots and leather. One afternoon, taking a break from his mischief-making, he stepped into the blacksmith’s shop, hidden in the shadows, and he watched Alfred work on a strange shape he was forging out of iron. Stepping out into view, he approached Alfred. “What is that you’re making?”

Used to Arthur’s random appearances by now, Alfred didn’t jump like he had in the beginning. Glancing over his shoulder as he tossed the shape he was working on into a trough of water, he told Arthur, “It’s a piece for a neighboring parish. The priest from that parish saw some work I did for the diocese in the city and commissioned a couple pieces from me. Paying good money for it, too.” He set down his hammer.

A playful grin stretched across Arthur’s face. “How would the Church feel if they knew they were commissioning work from a contracted, soulless man?”

“Probably the same as if they found out I’m a bastard. Same thing in their eyes, really.” Alfred stopped, regretting the words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Somehow, it was so easy to tell Arthur all his dirty little secrets, all his little transgressions against the Church.

“Not only lusting after men, but a  _ bastard _ as well?” Arthur couldn’t help but laugh. “You just get more and more interesting every time we talk, Alfred.” He came over to stand by the forge with the blacksmith, finding the steel-bending heat familiar and cozy, as if the blacksmith had isolated a little piece of Hell in his shop. Folding his arms, he smirked, looking at the human. “Does that priest know?”

“He doesn’t.” Alfred grabbed another piece of iron and got to hammering it into submission.

_ Speak of the Devil and he appears, _ one could suppose, but could the same really apply to a man of God? Whether it could or not, Arthur felt the sickeningly hallowed presence of Father Williams approaching the shop, and he swore under his breath and vanished into the shadows.

Alfred had only a moment to wonder what had made the demon flee before he had his answer in the opening of the door. Tossing the iron into the water, he turned just in time to see Father Williams step in.

“Hello, Alfred.” The priest offered the blacksmith a kind smile. He had an envelope in his hand, one made of an expensive paper. “A courier thought I was you and gave me this,” he said, holding out the envelope to Alfred. “It looks important.”

“Thanks, Father.” Alfred went and set the envelope on the counter, and when he turned back around, he saw the holy man eying his stock.

“Your craftsmanship is impressive, Alfred,” Father Williams praised, picking up a steel sword and looking it over. He’d always admired the other’s work, holding an appreciation for Alfred’s attention to detail.

Arthur, still skulking hidden in the shadows, watched the two interact. Observing Alfred in the time since they’d forged their contract, he’d seen the two mistaken for each other often, and he’d taken notice to how similar the two looked because of it. He wondered whether they were related.

The two mortals chatted idly for a short while before Father Williams left. Alfred went and picked up the envelope the priest had given him, popping the blue wax seal, stamped  _ BMC _ , with a dagger. He pulled out a one-page letter. The script was a lavish, flowing one, written by a steady hand.

_ Dear Mr. Jones, _

_ I’d like to commission a piece from you. It will be a very simple order, of one single steel dagger. I will be arriving one week from September 8th to pay and collect. _

The letter was signed by a Francis Bonnefoy. Alfred’s brow furrowed.  _ Where have I heard that name before? _

“One dagger. Odd order, isn’t it?” Arthur was looking over Alfred’s shoulder, just as confused as the blacksmith. “Such a formal letter for  _ that _ ?”

Alfred had nothing to say. He stuck the letter on a shelf under the counter and went back to his forge. As he tried to get back into his flow, he couldn’t help but focus on the letter and its sender. Just who was Francis Bonnefoy? Why was that name so familiar? Alfred perseverated, unable to pull his attention away from these questions. He remembered the Bonnefoy family owned a mercantile company, but there was something about  _ Francis _ Bonnefoy in particular that was nagging at him.  _ Did Ma mention him? _ he questioned himself.  _ She worked for a merchant or a noble… or something. _ It was three days until Francis’s impending visit to the shop.

Arthur stepped closer to Alfred, noticing the troubled look on the blacksmith’s face. “Something about the name ring a bell?”

“I think my mother mentioned him at some point.” Alfred crossed his arms as he waited on a piece of iron to heat up and become pliable again. “Maybe she worked for him.”

“Well, we’ll find out who he is when he gets here, won’t we?” Arthur took to wandering the shop, browsing through Alfred’s wares.

The impending visit from the merchant still hung over Alfred throughout the rest of the day, and well into the night. As he fell asleep that night, vague memories of overhearing chats between his mother and caravaners regarding where mother and child were headed played in his head.

Alfred was restless the morning of September 15th, anticipating the merchant’s visit. As he opened up shop for the day, the church bells chimed eight o’clock, and he heard Arthur’s footsteps behind him. The demon had been hovering the past three days, just as agitated and focused on the visit as his property. “That Francis should be coming today, right?” Arthur asked, folding his arms.

Alfred just nodded, too focused on his swirling thoughts to pay full attention to his master. Such a formal letter, for such a simple order, was just not normal. He ran his thumb over the palm, over his now-invisible contract mark, and he kept looking over at the door. Finally, he got up and got back to working on that parish commission, hoping to lose himself in his flow. The rhythmic sounds of his hammering and the occasional hiss of ripping hot metal hitting water were all that resounded in the shop for a short while, as Alfred toiled and the demon Arthur watched him work.

Shortly after the eleven o’clock toll, the door opened, and a man who looked to be in his thirties walked in. Blond hair, falling out of a loose ponytail, framed his face and touched his shoulders, and he was dressed extravagantly in expensive, boldly dyed silk.

Alfred looked up when he heard the door open, and he stopped when he saw how  _ young _ the man looked.  _ Was I mistaken? _ Surely this man wasn’t the man his mother had worked for; he was much too young. Alfred himself was twenty-three, and Francis only looked perhaps a decade older than that. “Hello, sir. What can I do for you?” He tossed a piece of iron into the water and approached the nobly dressed stranger.

“I’ve come to pick up my order,” the man said, retrieving a bag of coin from his bright cloak.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Bonnefoy. Let me grab that for you.” Alfred crossed the shop to the counter and grabbed a wrapped steel dagger from one of the shelves underneath.

Arthur, pretending to be just another customer, kept an eye on the merchant. The man’s youthful face bothered the demon, and on a hunch, he worked his magic, trying to feel out the man for the mark of a contract from a distance. Francis’s right palm lit up with a faint light that reflected off his cloak, nearly imperceptible, but definitely there. Arthur could guess what the terms were- immortality, or perhaps eternal youth. Unable to get any closer without drawing suspicion, he couldn’t pick up on the specifics, but some things were obvious just by connecting a couple dots.

Alfred handed the dagger off to its buyer, and Francis gave Alfred the entire bag. “While I’m here, I want to commission you for a project,” he said, a smile coming to his face. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his cloak and held it out.

Alfred balked at the sum the merchant had paid him. “Mr. Bonnefoy, this is much more than the dagger is worth, I can’t accept all this.”

“Consider the extra a down payment on this project,” Francis responded, waving the paper a little.

Alfred took it and read through it. The merchant was asking for two gladius-style swords, made of silver.

“While I have you,” the merchant spoke up, “I have a question for you, Mr. Jones. Does the name Alessia Jones mean anything for you?” Francis folded his arms.

Arthur remembered the name. He’d seen it on a tombstone in the cemetery the occasional times he’d wandered there. His eyes drifted to the blacksmith, and he remembered Alfred’s surname was Jones.  _ Alessia… His mother? _

Memories popped up in Alfred’s mind, things his mother had said about his father over the years.  _ He was an adulterer, he cheated on his wife with several women. I had to leave that job after I had you. _ He nodded. “She was my mother. Did you know her?”

“She worked for me,” Francis told the blacksmith. He began to wander the shop, browsing Alfred’s wares. Picking up a sword, he tested the sharpness. “Did you make everything here yourself? Your craftsmanship is impressive. I’m glad my son recommended you, Alfred.”

“Your son?” Alfred’s eyes widened. This man was old enough to have a son who knew of the blacksmith?

“Yes,” the merchant confirmed. “His name is Matthieu. He’s the priest at the chapel here.”

_ Father Williams is this man’s son? _ Arthur folded his arms, furrowing his brow. It made sense now how that was possible.  _ Does he know his father is contracted? _ He wondered, with how pure and holy the priest seemed to be, if he were hiding his father’s secrets. Surely the priest would have noticed his father didn’t age.

“Well, I should be going, Mr. Jones,” the merchant said as he headed for the door. “I’ll be back in a few days for those swords.” He left the smith's shop without another word.

Alfred just watched him go, his mouth agape and his eyes practically bugging out of his head.

"He's contracted," Arthur said as soon as the merchant was gone. “He didn’t give up his soul, I can tell you that much already, but I don’t know the specifics of his deal.”

Alfred didn’t seem to hear a word of what Arthur had said. He picked up the commission paper Francis had given him and read it over again, then went to get started on the swords. Just like he always did, he opted to burn away his problems in the forge.


	4. Silver Blades

Alfred worked furiously on the first silver sword while Arthur looked on. Angrily fueled by the revelations crashing down on him, the blacksmith was quick and efficient in his shaping of the silver, and when he tossed the half-finished blade into the trough of water, his mind was still wildly racing.

_ Ma looked so upset that night when she told me the truth about my father. “Alfred, your father wasn’t a soldier, and as far as I know, he’s still alive. He was a merchant, and he was an adulterer. He cheated on his wife with several women, and I was just one of them.” _

_ And I just met him. But why? Why is he here? _

As the five o’clock bells tolled, Alfred set down his tools and took off his heavy apron. It was time to close up for the night, and he planned on a night at the tavern.

Arthur could feel the anger that radiated from Alfred like the heat of his forge, an anger that clearly had deep roots. His focus was less on the blacksmith, however, and more on the commission the merchant had handed him. Silver, one of the banes of demonic existence, was deadly to his kind, able to leave lasting cuts that magic struggled to heal. The order, plus the fact that the man still had his soul, led Arthur to believe the favorable terms of Francis Bonnefoy’s contract were gained by force and violence. The demon hardly noticed when his new plaything left the shop without a word.

Alfred came back hours later, wasted, having drunk himself stupid in an effort to forget the face of his father. Seeing his demonic master still standing in the shop, he found a new temptation rising in him.

Arthur could smell the ale on Alfred immediately, and he looked up to see the blacksmith staggering towards him. The look in the human’s eyes intrigued him, and he grinned as he allowed Alfred to approach. He could use a distraction himself, and he figured he could amuse himself with Alfred for a night. Besides, it would sweeten their deal, and likely make the mortal more compliant and obedient. He took Alfred’s hand and led him back into the living quarters, and then into the man’s bedroom.

When Alfred woke the next morning, his head pounded and he found himself cursing the daylight. Getting out of bed, he noticed he was nude, and alone. Last night was a blur, and he didn’t remember bringing anyone home. He got dressed, and then went into the kitchen to make something quick to eat before he got to work.

He rubbed his aching head as he ate a small breakfast of eggs and bread, and once he finished, he headed out into the shop. He pulled the first silver sword from the water and dried it off, then tested the sharpness. Slightly dull, just as Mr. Bonnefoy has specified. He set the sword on his workbench and got started with cutting leather strips to wrap the hilt. Sitting, swiping at a hunk of leather with even strokes of a knife, he let go of his worries of yesterday, caught up in the rhythm of his work. Years of practice had perfected his cuts, leaving his strips quite even.

Arthur emerged from the shadows shortly after ten o'clock, and watched Alfred wrap leather around the hilt of one of the silver swords. He kept his distance, unable to even stand being near the blade. It was a reminder of the danger lurking in the village. He cleared his throat to get his property's attention, and once Alfred looked up, he spoke. "I don't know if you heard me yesterday, you were so eager to get started on the merchant's order. He's contracted, probably for immortality, and yet he still has his soul. I think I know how he managed that." He nodded to the sword in the mortal's hands. "I think he forced a demon into those terms with violence. It isn't exactly  _ normal _ for a demon to gift something like  _ immortality _ for a lower payment." He sighed, sitting down in a chair by the forge. "If I could only get a good look at his mark, I could find out who he's contracted to."

It took a moment for the connection between the sword and Arthur's theory to click in Alfred's head, and he remembered a tidbit about anti-demon weaponry he'd read, that silver was the most effective material to use in crafting weapons for demon hunting. He went back to his wrapping. "Can a human reveal their own mark willingly?" he asked, stopping for a moment to glance at his right palm.

"No. Humans can't perform the necessary magic." Arthur stared into the forge, racking his brain for an idea. "And if that merchant did indeed get his way by violence, I'd be putting myself in danger by trying to make his mark visible to read it. He'd probably figure out what was going on right away."

Things were quiet between them for a good while, as Alfred worked and Arthur tried to figure out a way to learn about Francis's contract. Finally, Alfred had an idea. "What would happen if I spilled holy water on my hand?"

"It would burn… out… the mark." Arthur perked up and looked over at Alfred, the epiphany coming to him. "Alfred, you're brilliant!"

Alfred finished wrapping the hilt of the first sword in leather cord and set it aside. “Sounds like I need to talk to Father Williams, then, when I have the chance.” Now he dreaded the thought of talking to the priest, knowing his deepest secret could be revealed to the man at any time, leaving him open to excommunication. “Actually, maybe I should go do that now.” He stood up. “I’ll be back later.”

As Alfred left the shop, Arthur found himself unable to keep from watching the blacksmith go.


	5. First Doubts

Father Matthieu Williams paced around the small abode within the chapel, a simple bedroom with a hearth. Try as he might, pray as he did, his mind held on to its troubles. _How could he have not aged all this time? How could I never have noticed?_ _Am I mistaken?_ His father looked no older than thirty, just like he had for at least the past twenty years, ever since Matthieu could remember.

A voice resounding through the sanctuary roused the priest from his ruminating. “Father Williams?”

_ Alfred. _ Someone familiar, someone who made sense, someone  _ normal _ who would never do what Matthieu thought his father had done. Matthieu made his way out to the sanctuary and saw Alfred standing by the entrance. He approached the blacksmith, relieved to see his friend. “Hello, Alfred. What can I do for you?”

“Would I be able to get another flask of holy water from you?” Alfred looked distracted as he asked, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“Of course. Still looking for that demon?” Alfred had been going on for weeks about the possibility of a demon terrorizing the village, and Matthieu had humored him. It took up Alfred’s time and gave him something to focus on, and demon hunting was better than the alternative.

“Yeah. I thought I had it a couple weeks ago, but the damn thing must have gotten away.” Alfred folded his arms. “I still can’t figure out how, though.”

Matthieu walked away from Alfred to grab a flask of holy water he had stowed away. With Alfred’s little hunting project, he’d started keeping some on hand in case the blacksmith needed more. When he came back, he handed over the flask. “Here.”

“Thanks, Father.” Alfred took a good look at the priest. “Are you okay? Something bothering you?” He stepped a bit closer to the man, worry clear in his face.

“Oh, I’m fine, Alfred.” Matthieu took a step back. “Just something personal.”

Alfred stopped, accepting the priest’s gentle rebuff. He stowed the holy water away in his cloak and stepped back towards the door.

“Actually,” Matthieu spoke up, “maybe you can help me make sense of something.” He hesitated for just a moment, and then asked, “How old do you think our visitor is?”

Alfred stopped to think. "I don't know. Maybe in his early thirties?"

Matthieu shook his head. "He's fifty-five." He folded his arms, a troubled look coming to his face. “And he’s looked thirty since I was a child,” he admitted to Alfred.

The blacksmith paused before he spoke. “What do you think is the reason?”

“I don’t know. Witchcraft, maybe,” Matthieu guessed, though he didn’t know of any foul magic that could induce true immortality.

“Could also be a demon,” Alfred offered. “Maybe he contracted himself to one, sold his soul. There are ways to find out if he did. Holy water would reveal a contract mark from what I’ve read. Would you like me to try?”

Truthfully, Matthieu didn’t want to know if his father had sold his soul; he didn’t know how he’s handle it if his father had done it. But he  _ needed _ to know. Without a word, the priest nodded, and then added, “Please.”

“I can try,” Alfred assured Matthieu.

“Thank you, Alfred.” The priest took a step back. “I’m sure you have work to do. I don’t want to keep you too long.”

Alfred headed for the door. “I’ll let you know if I find out anything,” he told Matthieu before leaving the chapel.

Matthieu walked back to his bedroom, and, sitting on his bed, he buried his face in his hands. He cried, and he prayed.

Alfred found he came home to an empty shop, his demonic master nowhere to be seen. That was a relief for the blacksmith; he wanted some time alone to sort out his thoughts. He took the holy water and set it on his workbench, then tossed his cloak behind the counter. Sitting to start wrapping the second sword’s hilt in leather, his mind went back to Father Williams… to Matthieu. The priest had looked utterly despondent while confiding his worries in Alfred. The blacksmith wondered if Matthieu knew they were brothers, if either Francis Bonnefoy had told him or he’d figured it out himself.

He finished wrapping the second sword, and then grabbed the holy water. Holding the flask in his right hand to avoid spilling any on his mark, he blessed the silver blades, and, resting one of the swords on his fingers rather than his palm, he looked over his handiwork. An inspection, a couple slow swings, and he was happy with the job. He sheathed the swords in dark leather scabbards and stuck them behind the counter, by themselves on a low shelf. He looked up when the door opened, and he saw a white-haired man come into the shop, dressed in a light cuirass and a tattered cloak. Likely a sellsword, Alfred assumed.

A pair of crimson eyes set on the blacksmith, and an easy smile graced the stranger’s visage. “Hello,” he greeted before he set about browsing. “Don’t mind me,” he told Alfred as he made his way to a rack of swords. He picked up one, the hilt of which was wrapped in red-dyed leather, and pulled it from its sheath. He angled the steel blade towards the forge, watching the firelight glint off the razor edge. “What a beauty,” he commented. “How much for this one?”

“A hundred,” Alfred told him, and once the stranger had the appropriate coin counted out, Alfred happily took it.

The traveler’s gaze drifted to the counter as he tied his new blade to his belt, and then he refocused on the blacksmith. “Thank you, sir.” He left the shop without another word.

“A cambion! There’s something I haven’t seen in quite a long time.” Arthur emerged from the shadows just after the mercenary left, a grin on his face. “Quite rate nowadays. What did he want?”

“Just to buy a sword. He found one he liked.” Alfred stuck the money the sellsword had paid with the rest of his earnings beneath the counter in a locked box. “You said he was a  _ cambion _ ? Half-demon, half-human?”

“Without a doubt,” Arthur proclaimed confidently, folding his arms. “So you got the holy water?”

“Yeah, and I’ve already blessed the swords.” Alfred came back around the counter. Father Williams’ despair came back to Alfred’s thoughts, and he felt a bit of pity for the holy man. He was sure the priest thought his world was falling apart. “Father Williams asked me to find out why Francis Bonnefoy looks so young,” he mentioned to Arthur, leaning his lower back against the counter.

This piqued the demon’s interest. “Did he now? Does he know you were looking for a demon?”

“Yes, he does. But he doesn't know I found the demon." Alfred looked to his master with assurance. "Or that I'm contracted to that demon." He let out a short sigh. "Well, the merchant's commission is done, and I'm guessing he'll be coming before the week is out to pick up the swords. So now we wait."


End file.
